“A lot, even if you don’t realize it. In a case like this, do you know what your role is?” “No. What’s my role?” “You supply the shit.” “That sounds a little excessive.”
“Excessive? Once it comes out that Nicotra and Di Cristoforo used drugs and died from it, their memory will be unanimously dumped on in direct proportion with the equally unanimous praise that will be heaped on you for having arrested the dealer. Some three months later, at most, somebody from Nicotra and Di Cristoforo’s party will start by revealing that Nicotra took very small doses of drugs for medicinal purposes and that Di Cristoforo did the same for his ingrown toenail. We’re talking medicine here, not vice. Then, little by little, their memory will be rehabilitated, and people will start saying that it was you who first started slinging mud at the dear departed.”
“Me?!”
‘Yes Sir, You, by making a careless arrest to say the least.
Augello stood there speechless. Montalbano threw down his ace.
“Don’t you see what’s happening to the ‘Clean Hands’ judges? They’re being blamed for the suicides and heart attacks of some of the accused. The fact that the accused were corrupt and corrupters and deserved to go to jail gets glossed over. According to these sensitive souls, the real culprit is not the culprit who in a moment of shame commits suicide but the judge who made him feel ashamed. But we’ve talked enough about this. If you get it, you get it. If you don’t, I’m tired of explaining it to you. Now get out of here, I got work to do.”
Without a word, Mimi got up and left the room, even glummer than before. Montalbano started eyeing four pages densely covered with numbers, unable to make anything whatsoever of them.
After five minutes of this, he pushed them away in dis-gust and called the switchboard. A voice he didn’t recognize answered.
13
“Listen, I want you to find me the phone number of a Palermo contractor named Mario Sciacca.” “Home phone or business phone?” “Home.” “All right.”
“But just find me the number, understand? If the home phone’s not listed, ask our colleagues in Palermo. Then I’ll call myself from a direct line.”
“I understand, Inspector. You don’t want them to know it’s the police calling.”
Smart kid. Knew his stuff.
“What’s the name?”
“Sciacca, Inspector.”
“No, yours.”
“Amato, Inspector. I started working here a month ago.”
He made a mental note to talk to Fazio about this Amato. The kid might be worth having on the squad. A few minutes later, the phone rang. Amato had found Mario Sciacca’s home phone number.
The inspector dialed it.
“Who’s this?” asked an old woman’s voice. “Is this the Sciacca residence?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Antonio Volpe. I’d like to speak with Signora Teresa.”
“My daughter-in-law’s not home.” “Is she away?”
“Well, she’s gone to Montelusa. Her father’s sick.”
What a stroke of luck! This might spare him the boring drive to Palermo. He looked for the number in the phone book. There were four people named Cacciatore. He would have to be patient and call them all.
“The Cacciatore residence?”
“No, the Mistrettas’. Look, this whole thing is a big pain in the ass,” said an angry male voice. “What whole thing, if I may ask?”
“The fact that you all keep calling, when the Cacciatores moved away a year ago.”
“Do you know their number, by any chance?”
Mr. Mistretta hung up without answering. A fine start, no doubt about it. Montalbano dialed the second number.
“The Cacciatore residence?”
“Yes,” replied a pleasant female voice.
“Signora, my name is Antonio Volpe. I tried to get in touch with a certain Teresa Sciacca in Palermo and was told—”
“I’m Teresa Sciacca.”
Astonished by his sudden good fortune, Montalbano was speechless.
“Hello?” said Teresa.
“How’s your father? I was told that—” “He’s doing much better, thank you. So much better that I’ll be going back to Palermo tomorrow.”
“I absolutely must speak to you before you leave.” “Signor Volpe, I—”
“Actually, my name’s not Volpe. I’m Inspector Montalbano.”
Teresa Sciacca let out a kind of gasp between fright and surprise.
